A Heart of Fire (5 page)

Valdrik
hurried across the large room and from the warm hall to Stieg who waited with
his destrier outside the longhouse. From the steps, Valdrik swung himself up
onto the large ash-colored horse.

"Tell
Ragnarr to stay here and await the Jarl and his men and lead them to the camp.
We attack Aldar's forces there," he ordered.

Stieg
nodded with a hard glint in his eye. "Aye." He gave the horse a slap
to the haunch that sent the animal into a trot and then a gallop.

As
Valdrik rode past their walls, he thought of the battle to come. They had never
tried such a thing as Hadarr suggested. They had never been strong enough.

Three
winters ago when he and his men had arrived on Hadarr's step half-starved and
homeless, the coldest of days already upon them, they had no shelter to look to
for warmth. Hadarr had been desperate for warriors and had gladly offered them
one and all a place amongst his people in exchange for their swords.

Since
then, their population had steadily increased. They had gone to distant shores
during the summer, after Aldar raided—and had not been quite as successful as
Aldar probably wished, as his men had found their village more fortified than
once before. They had built up walls as soon as the ground had thawed, like
some Valdrik had seen the Romans use when he'd gone raiding with his father
years before.

This
last spring, they had brought back new slaves to work and found men further up
the coast, their villages dwindling, willing to return to fight with them if
only for food alone.

Aye,
this time they stood a chance.

This
time would be different.

This
time he would have the revenge he so dearly longed for.

He
had a score of his own to settle with Aldar Leiknir.

Chapter Three

A
ripe moon cast enough glow on the bank of the fjord so that the men sneaking
into the enemy camp could see their way without use of torch, making their
element of surprise all the easier. Sharp blades met with unsuspecting throats
as Aldar’s warriors slept on until at last a cry rang out amongst them, raising
alarm throughout the camp.

Finna's
eyes flew open at the sound of a gurgled cry erupting in the still night. She
gasped as realization hit her, and she shot up to sit on her pallet, panic
racing through her. More shouts of alarm followed, and she immediately rose to
her knees, peering around the clump of growth on the bank she slept behind. The
sight that met her had her scrambling to her feet. She looked over the mound in
horror at the bloodshed before her.

"Nay!"
she shouted. She uttered a curse when she spotted their attackers and the
number of her own men already littering the ground. Finna fell back to reach
for her helmet beside her pallet and quickly pulled it over her head, ignoring
her fallen braids as she grabbed her sword and raced up the incline toward the
fray.

She
did not have to go far before her steel met with another Viking's and then
another's. She cried out fiercely as she threw a man off and struck again,
blindly working her way through the mêlée. There had been no warning, no sound.
No time to form a shield wall or any formation.

Finna
swung her blade, cutting down her fair share of the foes within the next few
moments, but as she pulled her bloody sword from the gut of one man, a large
body blindsided her. With a cry of surprise, she swiftly found herself knocked
off her feet and lying on her side in the grass. The hard impact rattled her
senses all the more. Her face stung where her cheek grazed the stones and dirt,
but she whipped around, grasping for her sword and gaped at the man swinging
his axe above her with a fierce war cry.

Finna
scurried backwards into the sand of the beach, her arms sinking in, and she
quickly rolled to the side to avoid certain death just as the axe sliced into
the bank and stuck there. With a grunt, she gave the man a solid kick to the
face, affording herself time enough to recover and gain her feet, then recoiled
as his blade met her own.

Repeatedly,
steel met, and his heavy blows reverberated throughout her entire body. Winded,
Finna brought her leg up and landed a kick into his chest, knocking him off
kilter and affording herself time enough to recover again. Relentlessly, she swung
at him, knowing she must best him now, or she might not at all.

She
struggled, and then, at last, her blade found purchase in his side. Though he
retreated a step and cried out in pain, she was not sure if the cut were a
mortal wound or not. The man pushed forward, holding his side. Triumph flooded
her, until again he slammed his body into her and knocked her from her feet. As
her head hit the ground, she felt her helmet slip away and her hair scattered
around her and into her face. With a wing of alarm flitting through her, she
swung around, into a crouch, unsheathed her dagger from beneath her right arm
and in a wide arch sliced beneath the back of the man's knee.

He
fell then, at last, crying out in agony as Finna gave a fierce cry, ready to
cleave his head from his shoulders as she stood and brought her sword high. But
when no counter attack came from him—and she had risen but he stayed where she
had put him on the sand—she became confused for a moment.

Why
did he not fight her anymore? It angered her that he toyed with her so. Did he
not realize she could kill him at any moment?

Finna
angled her blade at him, baring her teeth, and then realization hit her
squarely. He saw that she was a woman now and would not attack her. He stared
up at her with wide eyes, his mouth agape and face ashen.

The
man was old but solid. Looking upon him, she was as surprised at his age as he
was at her gender. Finna snarled at him and swung her sword above her head
again, ready to end this.

But
she was stopped short from behind.

A
shockingly hard blow knocked her sword to the side then. She cried out in pain
as the contact nearly broke her wrist and she lost control of her weapon.

Finna
swung to face her new attacker, bringing her blade back before her. With pain,
she lifted her sword, but at the same time knew her wrist was nearly useless.

A
wave of panic overcame her then as she watched the warrior taking steady,
menacing strides toward her, forcing her backwards. For every step he took, she
scuttled back like a coward towards the bluff. No wonder he'd had such a force
behind that blow. The Viking stood a full head taller than she. Finna took no
time in parrying his next swing, but did little else except deflect his
forceful blow. He swung at her again and again. Each impact brought a sharp
stab of pain to her injured arm, and she had the distinct feeling he was not
even trying. His blade met hers again, and she had not the strength to parry
any longer, ducking to the side instead.

Finna
gasped as her foot slipped, and she stumbled backwards over a rock near a tree.
She caught herself against the rough trunk, but fell to her backside anyway.
She used her feet to their best advantage and kicked at the giant's shin. He
cursed as he staggered on the slope, angered by her assault.

Finna
scrambled to her feet, having no choice but to edge closer to the top of the
bluff overlooking the fjord. Never had a man been able to best her in any
match. Nor had she ever felt such fear in battle as she did now, knowing she
was very near defeat. The wind gusted her hair into her face as she looked down
and found the racing waters of the fjord crashing against the rocks below.

The
warrior lunged for her then, and when she blocked his blow with her blade, she
cried out at the pain shooting from her wrist. She clamped her teeth in a
menacing growl as icy fire shot up her arm.

With
determination to die with her sword in her hands, she struggled to lift her
blade once more—the man actually laughed at her, acutely sparking her ire—then
he knocked her sword to the side with a blow that sent her spinning, leaving
her back completely open for attack. Finna fought for energy to turn about, but
just as she did, a set of steely hands grasped her arms and thrust her forward,
hanging her over the bluff.

Finna
screamed as he moved to take a fistful of her hair in a harsh tug, pulling her
into his large body. Every inch of him pressed into her as he bent to hiss into
her ear, "Go back to your Jarl, girl, and tell him we shall not take
kindly to a razing again.” Before the words truly registered, he let go. A
moment later, a heavy, booted foot landed a kick to the small of her back,
stealing her breath and sent her face first into the fjord.

Finna
screamed as she tumbled over herself through midair. She struggled to take a
breath just as she crashed into the water. The icy chill slammed into her. She
was conscious of what had just happened, yet still completely astounded. She
resurfaced, kicking, flailing her arms as she fought for breath and flung her
wet hair from her eyes. Finna looked to the bluff, but the giant was gone. She
screamed in fury, slapping the water and dove back under, searching for her
sword but came back empty handed. The bottom of the fjord was too deep. She
screamed murderously and thrashed again.

“Damn
you, Viking!” she yelled into the twilight.

Her
men were retreating already as she swam to shore. She ground her teeth in fury.
Aldar would be enraged at this outcome. There were too few of them left to make
any kind of stand. Too, she had no weapon now.

Grahund
raced down the slope under the bluff as Finna dragged herself up on the sandy
beach. He was there to help her from the water and caught her uninjured arm to
heft her up. Red stained his hair and face, down his body all the way to his
feet. He was drenched with blood, whether his own or their enemies’, she could
not tell. Finna hugged her wrist to her breast, shaking violently, gasping to
breathe.

"Come,
we must get you dry clothing and near a fire," Grahund said.

"I
shall kill that man if I ever see him again," she said, her teeth
chattering. Together, they started up the hill.

“We
underestimated them,” he said through heavy breaths.

When
they reached the top, Finna’s cerulean eyes cut into the distance just in time
to see the man she had battled with turn to look over his shoulder as his
warriors made the tree line up the hill, and then he disappeared.

A
deep quiver shot through her. She could never forget such a face. He had worn
no helmet, nor armor. Such fierce hostility had poured from him so vividly she
could see it as they had fought.

At
last, a man who had bested her.

Too
bad he was now her blood enemy.

****

Well
away from the battlefield, Valdrik hefted his unconscious Jarl over the back of
his warhorse and then mounted his own beast. Hadarr's side bled from the
grievous injury the woman had inflicted upon him, and Valdrik feared for the
man's life. Taking the reins of the other animal, he wasted no time in
departing. He was certain no one followed them, but fear gripped him as he raced
ahead of the others so that Hadarr could be tended by the women as soon as may
be. For his Jarl's honor, he would never tell a soul that Hadarr had been
wounded by a shieldmaiden.

Several
hours passed before he reached the walls, but when Surguilde inspected her
beloved husband, she assured Valdrik he would mend. He had not even lost very
much blood. Only then did Valdrik allow Geera to tend his own wounds. He
required no real mending, only a few scratches in need of cleaning. Others
vitally required her healing touch more than he. When she finished, he sent her
away and remained outside his Jarl's chambers until sometime in the night when
he was startled awake by Hadarr calling for him.

"Valdrik!"
the Jarl called.

Valdrik
leapt from his seat and quickly entered the room. Hadarr was yelling and
fighting to get from the bed.

"You
must lie down and rest," Surguilde insisted, sitting at her husband's side
and doing her best to keep him from tearing his stitches.

“Calm
yourself,” Valdrik shouted, reaching for the other man as he came to the bed.
“You are safe now. The raid is over. They retreated shortly after you fell,” he
told him.

Hadarr
stared at Valdrik with crazed eyes then rested back heavily on the bolster
under his neck. He motioned Valdrik to pull a chair nearer as Surguilde left
him to pour her husband ale and came back to hand him his drinking horn.

“Did
you see her?” Hadarr asked before he drank.

“I
do not know whom you speak of,” Valdrik said.

The
Jarl sighed heavily. “Surely she was a vision then.” He shook his head, staring
off.

“The
shieldmaiden?” Valdrik asked.

Hadarr
sat a little straighter, his attention jerking back to Valdrik. “Aye, she was
real then?”

“Real
enough to knock you to your ass,” Valdrik jested, but put a hand to his Jarl's
chest to still the man before he did indeed tear the stitches in his side. “The
hellion got what she deserved. I could not bring myself to kill her, but I
dealt her a beating enough that mayhap she will wisely stay at home and mind
the hearth from now on. A raid is no place for a woman.”